


winter in their veins

by starforged



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers, spoilers for s8e2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/pseuds/starforged
Summary: If Sansa were queen, where would Theon fit?





	winter in their veins

There’s too much to do, even now, even in the calm before the storm. Children to bundle up and secure away, soldiers who aren’t really soldiers to feed and outfit. Her home is a home, and it’s an outpost, and it’s the last stand of summer and sunlight before the Night King comes. 

Sansa isn’t quite sure if she was ever optimistic. Naive, yes. Dreamy, absolutely. Her childhood was idyllic and bred flights of fancy that she gave up so long ago. But now she’s even less so, more realistic, understanding of the machinations of her position and the world she lives in. 

There are _so many things to do_ , and seeing as how she seems to be one of the few people actually capable of management (as if a sword was so great), she’s by herself. Going over a checklist. Giving soft orders and pleasant smiles. The servants give smiles back, but they’re less sure. A group of Dothraki walk by her, older men that eye her with curiosity, and she bites back the shake of fear that threatens to settle in her knees. 

It’s not who they are, it’s what they are. 

And they haven’t been here long enough for her to even begin to pick up a phrase or two. So she can’t give them orders, ask them what their orders are, tell them that she thinks they’d be best suited protecting Winterfell’s walls–

“Lady Stark.”  


Theon’s managed to sneak up on her in her carelessness. She’s going to have to work on managing and being aware. Another thing to add to her checklist. If there is a way for Bran to share just the smallest bit of his omniscience, she’d gladly take it. 

She turns to Theon even as she thinks about whether or not Bran knows an outcome, any outcome. 

“Sansa,” she tells him. They’ve been through too much, grew up together, for him to use a title.   


“Perhaps princess is more appropriate,” he manages to say before his face pales and his gaze dips to the ground.   


For a second-

For the briefest of moments, it’s the Theon of old.

Her heart hurts. Her eyes prick. There are still the crypts to be checked and filled with extra blankets and the more important things to be moved down below the earth and for Bran to be–

She takes a deep breath, blows it out of her nose. “Sansa,” she repeats.

He doesn’t say queen. 

There are too many of them, anyway.

“Besides, have you not heard, Theon? Jon threw his title away for a woman.”  


 _What of the North?_  she had asked Danaerys. 

“You should rest,” Theon tells her.   


Her smile is lopsided and decidedly more fragile than she intends. She watches as he watches the curve of it, sees the cogs turn in his mind as he tries to interpret this looks. He’s gotten very good at looks the same way she has. 

If she were queen, where would Theon fit into all of this? Not Hand, surely. Spymaster, perhaps. Although she has Bran for that. Emissary to the Queen of the Iron Islands. Because Sansa would allow that, she would allow those who still want their freedom to have it. She wouldn’t force a rule upon anyone.

She’s tired of fighting.

Maybe that is a naive thought.

His hand is on her shoulder, just barely. He’s ready to take it back at any second, but before he can decide to do so, she covers his hand with hers. He’s cold. Or maybe she is. This weather is enough to take the warmth out of anyone. Her fingers curl around his gently. 

“I have enough things to do without taking a beauty rest, Theon.” With her free hand, she gestures around at the frenzied pace of the people coming and going. Nobody pays them any attention, and even if they had, she’s not going to shy away from the bit of intimacy she can stomach.   


He glances around them, tries to tug his hand away. Her grip is steel. She is steel and iron and porcelain and winter. She is every bit as much of winter as her father and his father and all of the Starks before them. And she will not let Theon’s hand go until she is ready to.

He stares at her with wide eyes, but there’s no fear in them. Thank the gods, because she isn’t sure how she would deal with fear. Let him go and profusely apologize until her tongue fell out? There are words on his lips and in his face and in the way his thumb runs against the back of her hand and his pinky twists with hers. 

They have been robbed of so much, her and Theon. They have made mistakes and paid so dearly for them, and this might be–

If she were queen, Theon’s place would be beside her. In whatever capacity he felt comfortable in. He’s a Stark as surely as she is, and there’s winter in his veins as much as there is the sea. 

“Fine,” Sansa finally relents. “Only for a moment, and only if you’ll accompany me.”

Theon nods, slowly, meekly, and he offers his arm to her. “If that’s your wish.”

“It is.”


End file.
